The dimming light cast long shadows across Medusa's face as she gazed out the window, her expression etched with distaste. "I hate New York," she muttered, the words dripping with disdain. "Always have."
The sprawling metropolis lay before her, a concrete jungle devoid of the warmth and charm she craved. The skyline was an impersonal grid of steel and glass, reaching up towards a sky that held no stars—only a suffocating blanket of darkness.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of exhaust, the aromatic pleasures of home cooking long since smothered by the relentless urban hum. Faceless crowds trudged by below, their features twisted into masks of joyless resignation. There was a pervasive heaviness to their steps, a reluctance in their very breaths.
